


we don't know where we're going (but we know where we belong)

by TheMipstaz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Prince Derek, Prince Stiles, Slavery, Threesome - M/M/M, pleasure slave scott, the captive prince au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 20:16:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10861311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMipstaz/pseuds/TheMipstaz
Summary: “Tomorrow,” Stiles agrees, unable to help a sour face.Chuckling, Derek smooths the wrinkles on Stiles’ forehead. “But for now, we have tonight. Let us enjoy it.”





	we don't know where we're going (but we know where we belong)

**Author's Note:**

> After literally how many months I'm back! Back to writing and back on [Tumblr](https://nevergooutofstiles.tumblr.com). Senior year has been crazy. Then I got addicted to Ryan Higa and Arden Cho Youtube videos. Then I read the "All For the Game" series and am on the 3rd book of "The Captive Prince" series, hence this fic. 
> 
> For those who have read "The Captive Prince," Stiles is Laurent and Derek is Damen. Very loosely. Scott can be Erasmus if you like. Mostly I just borrowed the kingdom names and general traits. 
> 
> For those who haven't read it, it's not really necessary to know context because this is basically just porn. Stiles and Derek are princes of rival kingdoms. Scott is Stiles' pleasure/sex slave. It's set in some vague ancient historical setting with kings, knights, the works. 
> 
> Title from [Harry's new song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8uD6s-X3590) because I just read an amazing OT5 fic so I'm currently 1D obsessed and I couldn't resist. 
> 
> Also, I tagged this as non-con simply because there's pretty much always a non-con aspect in slavery AU's, even though I did write explicit consent. Be warned.

Stiles of House Stilinski would like to think being crown prince of a grand kingdom like Vere has prepared him for numerous things: picking trustworthy advisors, overseeing the royal budget, giving gallant and regal speeches, peacefully parleying with neighboring countries. It has not, however, prepared him for a situation like this: Scott—Stiles’ oldest friend, first love, and faithful personal servant—beautifully prostrating himself at the feet of Akielos’ Prince Derek.

Derek looks impressed, and Stiles smirks to himself. He should be. Such an act is custom of Akielon slaves, not of their Veretian counterparts. It took Scott ages to get the foreign form just right, legs folded neatly and forehead brushing the ground and back muscles taut with tension. In Stiles’ opinion, the position looks supremely uncomfortable. But it has the desired effect of Derek’s eyes darkening with desire, his breath coming just a little faster.

When King Stilinski urged his notoriously sharp-tongued son to play nice with the visiting Akielon dignitaries in order to expedite the cautious peace talks, the first of their kind in decades, Stiles doesn’t think this is what the king meant. He and Derek have long since ditched their bristling, posturing bodyguards in a wild goose chase around the palace gardens. They wove among the towering hedges, ducked nimbly behind elegant statues, and raced around marble fountains dotting the courtyards. Breathless with shared laughter and the hot sun beating on their brows, the two retreated to the cool shade of the well ventilated castle.

After months of negotiation and deliberations and countless journeys to and fro between the two countries, it’s an old habit by now. Stiles relishes the time he has with Derek away from prying eyes and perked ears. As much as he enjoys the compex, snarling intricacies of Veretian politics, as adept as he is at outmaneuvering any courtier who thinks himself clever enough to try his hand at challenging the sovereignty, Stiles can’t deny the refreshing quality of Akielon candidness. When Derek comments on the elaborate architecture and tasteful gold filigree, it’s just that—an idle comment. There’s no hidden motive or deceit hinting at a possible coup from unhappy nobles.

When they’re alone, Stiles feels the paranoia and tension slowly drain out of him. He wonders what it says about his country that he feels more at ease with a supposed enemy than among his own people.

“And just when I thought I was becoming accustomed to Vere,” Derek comments, eyes drifting to Stiles.

“We’re a country full of surprises,” Stiles replies evenly, shutting the door to his bedchambers that he and Derek just entered to discover Scott. Before it closes, he peeks out to make sure the guard he waved away had obeyed and left.

“Consider me surprised.” A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. “Rise.” Derek directs his last word at Scott, who gracefully unravels himself.

The lamp light throws golden light upon his smooth, tanned skin. The sheer silks draped enticingly over his shoulders fall away as he rises, leaving only bare skin. The ornate golden collar identifying him as a royal slave gleams like something prized instead of a glorified manacle. The precious rubies embedded in it shimmer as Scott shyly approaches, eyes respectfully averted. He casts a sidelong look at Stiles, who nods encouragingly.

Derek reaches out, pulling Scott closer with a gentle hand. Their first kiss is chaste, exploratory, and quickly followed by several more. Their first touch is electric, the air in the room heavy like a thundercloud. Scott’s eyelashes flutter darkly against his cheek. Derek strokes the sharp line of his jaw with a finger, tangles his other hand in Scott’s curled hair. Scott makes a soft sound when Derek tugs lightly, then harder.

Stiles’ mouth falls open slightly, his pulse quickening. He leans heavily against the closed door, adjusts his pants. He licks his dry lips and commands, “Undress the Exalted.”

Immediately, Scott’s nimble hands fly to the buttons of Derek’s shirt like metal to magnets, resistanceless. Cheeks flushed, Derek breaks the kiss for a moment only to shrug out of his shirt and toss it aside. Then he scoops Scott up in his arms, kissing all the while. Scott makes a soft noise of surprise, wrapping his legs around Derek’s torso and steadying himself with hands bracing Derek’s broad shoulders.

Stiles feels a jolt of arousal at the sight, wonders if the room doesn’t feel a little warmer.

Scott is shorter than both he and Derek, but not by much. And he is deceptively compact with muscle borne of years of sword training, wrestling, and a hundred other activities unfit for indoor slaves. Most embellished pets of nobles are slender, fussy things with delicately smooth skin. Scott’s unusual musculature and myriad scars from a lifetime of making trouble with Stiles often causes people to double take at the gold resting on his collarbone. The fact that Derek can lift Scott like he weighs nothing more than a sack of cotton has Stiles’ cock twitching. Stiles’ eyes drag hungrily along the flexing lines of Derek’s shoulder blades and arms.

Scott sunnily giggles as Derek carries him to the feather-soft mattress. He allows Derek to lay him gingerly on his back and lean over him. But as soon as Derek lets his guard down, Scott wraps powerful legs around Derek’s waist. He grunts and rolls them over to straddle Derek’s hips. “Exalted,” he winks.

Scott takes advantage of Derek’s momentary shock at the slave’s audacious behavior to trail languorous kisses down Derek’s neck to his collar. He nips at playfully at Derek’s chest. Scott drags mischievous nails lightly down Derek’s ribs, swirls a tongue around first one nipple then the next.

Derek gasps under Scott’s attentions, head thrown back and fingers once again resting on Scott’s head. A light sheen of sweat on his forehead reflects the light. His cock strains against the confines of his pants. Scott grins and arches his back a little to grind back against the bulge, bites his bottom lip. Derek plants his feet on the mattress to roll his hips up, meet Scott’s movements in a carnal rhythm.

Stiles watches intently with a half-lidded gaze for a moment longer, but then decides he’s shown enough self-restraint for one night. He divulges himself of his own clothing, cursing the unnecessary Veretian ties and laces, and strides purposefully towards the two. On the way over, he grabs the bottle of oil left helpfully on the desk.

Scott shivers when Stiles’ hands find his hips, fingertips follow the curve of his spine. He momentarily drops his forehead to Derek’s abdomen, panting in apprehension as Stiles pops open the bottle stopper. The sweet scent of perfumed oil wafts into the room.

“Okay?” Stiles whispers to the knobs of Scott’s spine, the ball of his shoulder.

Scott squeezes his eyes shut and nods.

Stiles coats his fingers and gently presses them against Scott’s entrance, relishing the way the hot resistance begins to give way. “Fuck, he’s tight. Touch him,” Stiles suggests in a strained voice, tossing the oil onto the bed.

Derek pours some onto his hand and reaches between their body to wrap a firm hand around Scott’s cock, thumbing the leaking slit. Scott moans loudly, hips jerking as Derek finds a slick rhythm counterpoint to Stiles’ deft fingers. It feels like a lightning strike in the best way, frissons of energy sparking in his shaking lungs, every ragged breath expelling nitrogen smoke.

Derek pulls Scott down to swallow his little gasps and punched out noises with a heady kiss. It’s a wet and filthy and needy clash of mouths and shared breaths. Scott’s arms tremble beside Derek’s head, threatening not to hold him up.

Stiles adds another finger and some more oil, massaging Scott’s ass with his free hand. He reassuringly strokes down the back of Scott’s thigh and presses fluttering kisses to the valley of his spine. Fingertips trail further down to lightly drag against the sensitive skin leading to his balls.

Scott whines at the third finger, fucks more desperately into Derek’s hand. The initial burn has long since given way to a simmering heat that tightens his stomach and makes it impossible to catch his breath. The stretch is balanced out by the sheer bliss of Derek’s firm grasp, the messy kisses laid on his shoulder. It’s more than enough stimulation to give Scott a hard time holding back finishing then and there.

But then Stiles starts to speak in a low, sultry tone. He mutters about how he can’t wait to fill Scott up, how gorgeous Scott would look with Derek’s cock in his mouth.

“Do you want that, Scotty?” Stiles mutters, grinding his hips against the roundness of Scott’s ass. “Could you take both of us fucking you at once? Being so full for me?”

“Y-yes,” Scott whispers, face flushing both at Stiles’ salacious comments and the lurch of arousal they cause. Derek sucking distracting bruises onto his neck doesn’t help. “Yes, I—” The pleasure crests to something unbearable, suspending Scott on the edge of something transcendent. Stiles’ fingers twist just right; Derek’s grip tightens infinitesimally; Scott is drunk on both of them. Everything crashes down, and Scott comes.

He holds himself up on quaking hands and knees as Stiles strokes his hip comfortingly. Derek wriggles out from under him, kisses the sweat from his temple and wipes the hair out of his face.

“Okay?” whispers Stiles as he lines up, tip resting against Scott’s slick entrance without any pressure. Patient. Waiting for Scott’s cue.

Even though Scott would love to nap for 20 years after such intensity, the fact that Stiles is still willing after all these years to stop everything on Scott’s command is what gets him through it.

Their relationship extends well beyond just master and slave. By all ordinary standards, Stiles has the right to do whatever he wants to Scott. Scott is property, a commoner sold into indentured servitude to pay off the steep debts of his gambling, good-for-nothing drunkard of a father.

Scott’s mom cried on the last day of her son’s freedom; Scott remembers being white faced with terror at the prospect. He was young, hardly 5 or 6 years of age—the perfect age for any lewd nobleman to snatch him up as entertainment for the next several years. No one would question it.

“Be brave,” his mom had whispered fiercely in their common, regional tongue. She shot fearful looks at all the wealthy aristocrat types circling like sharks. “Have courage, my son. You will find your way back to me.” They sneered at the vernacular spoken by the lower castes, haughtily sussurating among themselves and casting derisive looks. They leered closer like walls closing in, like a cage slamming shut.

And then everything changed in a whirlwind moment. A flash of mole-speckled skin, a glimpse of wide brown eyes, and Scott tumbled to the ground. Dazed, he sat up and stared at the face of someone who would alter his life beyond imagination.

“Hi,” beamed the dusty, disheveled boy. A circlet of gold dangled haphazardly off one ear where it had been knocked off his head. Dirt smeared his fine silk garments. “I’m Stiles. What’s your name?”

“S-Scott.”

15 years later, Scott looks over his shoulder at the same wide brown eyes. Lust darkens their depths, but underneath Scott can still see the little boy who has held Scott’s rapt attention all this time. He can feel the unspoken _Okay?_ In Stiles’ keen gaze in the firm, but loving grasp on Scott’s hips.

Scott reaches back to cover one of Stiles’ hands with his own. He braces himself with the other hand. “Okay.”

The first push has Stiles biting his lip and Scott moaning like a whore, fisting the sheets under him. His forehead drops to the coverlet as if blocking out sight will dampen the other overwhelming sensations: the slick sound, the slight friction and stretch, the tightening of Stiles’ grip.

Derek wiggles out from under Scott, kneels by his head, runs a hand through his sweat-damp curls. Scott leans into the touch.

When Stiles finally rests his hips flush against the curve of Scott’s ass, he pauses to catch his breath, to appreciate the warm pulses of pleasure that wrack his body with every minute shift of Scott’s body. Stiles throws Derek a half-lidded glance. “Are you ready or not?” he asks in a raspy voice.

“The true question,” Derek comments in a low voice, shuffling on his knees to bring his erect cock at Scott’s mouth level, “is if he is prepared.” He sounds doubtful even as he takes his length in hand. He eyes Scott’s slumped form dubiously, chest rising and falling as his eyes rake over the play of back muscles.

Instead of wasting time with a smart reply, Scott straightens his arms, pushes up onto his hands and knees, and determinedly swipes a tongue over the head of Derek’s cock. He wraps slick lips around the length, gazes up through dark lashes, hollows his cheeks.

Derek’s head falls back, pelvis jerking forward involuntarily to fuck into the addictive, wet heat. “Good boy,” Derek mutters, clutching at Scott’s hair again.

Scott’s own cock jumps feebly at that, core melting into goop at the praise. He redoubles his efforts, jaw aching in all the right ways.

Stiles groans at the sight and begins to move. His stomach tightens at the bounce of Scott’s ass each time Stiles snaps his hips. He lightly drags blunt nails down Scott’s ribs, rests a hand at the nape of his neck. Stiles experiments with the angle until he hits something that has Scott moaning around Derek’s cock, has Scott’s obscene mouth faltering. Derek doesn’t mind, sucks in a desperate breath and patiently thumbs Scott’s swollen, red lips.

“I asked you,” gasps Stiles in between thrusts, “to do something, love. I want you to pleasure the prince of Akielos.” Scott’s breath hitches as Stiles infuriatingly slows the pace to something searing. “Are you going to leave the job only half finished?”

Scott’s pulse jumps with every achingly languorous movement, deep and unhurried. He feels the soft nudge of Derek’s cock against the corner of his mouth. Scott is helpless to do anything else except open up, bask in the salty taste of velvet skin. His eyes flutter, throat relaxes. He wraps a hand around the bit that won’t fit, tightens until Derek makes a punched out noise and his hips roll a little more urgently.

Behind him, Stiles’ self-control begins to crack a little. His movements grow sloppy and frantic as the breaking point fast approaches. Pleased, Scott plays to Stiles’ weaknesses. He arches his back to present his ass higher, moans louder, pushes back against Stiles.

The tension in the room peaks. The bed frame shudders. Its silk draperies quiver.

No one is quite sure what happens first. If Stiles pounds into Scott until the pleasure crests to something unbearable. If Derek falls into the heavenly silk of Scott’s lips, cock jerking and leaking for what seems like forever. If Scott surrenders to the feeling of Stiles carpeting his back, grinding forward, and Derek filling his mouth.

Still unsure, they all collapse together at the same time—like a star at the end of its life. Chests heave for breath. Sweaty limbs tangle together. Slack mouths curl into fond smiles.

Stiles gingerly pulls out. Scott sleepily smacks his mouth, eyelids already slipping shut. He makes a small noise of complaint when Stiles slides out of bed. Derek pulls him close, wraps the blankets around them reassuringly until Stiles returns with someone’s discarded shirt.

When everyone is clean enough to be bearable until the morning, Stiles clambers under the sheets as well. The lamps are blown out.

Sandwiched between them, Scott is already fast asleep. Moonlight streams in from the window, but no one is willing to get up to close the drapes.

Turning on his side, Stiles looks over Scott’s head across the bed to admire the angled lines of Derek’s face. “So,” he says in a quiet voice, unable to resist breaking the silence, “do you think our little tryst did more to hurt or help our countries’ deliberations?”

“I suppose we’ll find out tomorrow,” Derek whispers back.

Tomorrow.

Stiles grimaces at the thought of facing the royal court the next morning. Who knows how many people had seen him and Derek running around the palace grounds, perhaps even spotted them slipping down the hallway towards Stiles’ bedchambers. Certainly Stiles’ chamber guard would’ve immediately gone to gossip with his peers after Stiles dismissed him and entered with the prince of Akielos in tow. Perhaps the guard will share tidbits with the servants who readied Scott earlier in the evening.

In the palace, gossip travels faster than a spark in a bone dry wheat field. Before Stiles even leaves his room, people will be tittering over the escapade. Others will grumble disgruntledly about betrayal and disloyalty. Money will be changing hands based on illicit bets won and lost. Stiles almost regrets the night, inundated by the repercussions he hadn’t thought about in the heat of the moment. So distracted was he by Derek’s adorable rabbit-like front teeth and the joyous crinkles framing his eyes.

But then Derek takes Stiles’ hand. He rubs comforting circles onto the back with his thumb. The cacophony thundering in Stiles’ head quiets, swallowed by Derek’s sincere expression and kind eyes. The crooning night sounds filter back into the room, chirping crickets and two owls hooting back and forth in an unknown conversation.

“Tomorrow,” Stiles agrees, unable to help a sour face.

Chuckling, Derek smooths the wrinkles on Stiles’ forehead. “But for now, we have tonight. Let us enjoy it.”


End file.
